


Static

by vexmybones



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And Now For Something Completely Different, Angst with a Happy Ending, Book and movie verse, Complete, Crossover, F/M, Hand wavy magic, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Illya is Oliver's Grandfather, M/M, Mostly Movie, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, Oliver centric, Oliver is kind of an asshole, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, ambiguous timeline, but he has good reason-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 06:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16760218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexmybones/pseuds/vexmybones
Summary: Oliver is about to get married. The thing is, he can't stop thinking about Elio.A tale of meddling spies, family, and above all; love.(AKA; The Call Me By Your Name/Man From UNCLE crossover that nobody asked for, but I wrote anyway.)





	1. The beginning and middle.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modern!AU, and there is much hand-wavy magic used on the timelines. Please just ignore how improbable this concept probably is...

_Friday, May 12_ _th_

“Absolutely not, no.”

“I think that's a grand plan!”

Oliver's gaze pings back and forth between his parents like a spectator at a tennis match. Frown lines dig trenches into his father's forehead and his arms cross defensively. His mother's eyes are narrowing into slits. He's almost certain that his dad won't back down, but will instead find some way to avoid what he deems unacceptable.

“Oh shush, Richard! You can stay home until the rehearsal.”

He was right.

“Fantastic! It's settled then, we'll have the whole week to finalize plans and catch up before your Big Day.”

He offers his grandmother a smile as she leans forward and pats Jackie's knee. The capital 'Big Day' causes anxiety to whisper through his veins. He smothers it with a glance at his fiancée's beaming face. This is fine. Everything is going according to plan. He'll be married in a week and it'll all be great.

_'ElioElioElio'_ snakes its way through his thoughts and makes his heart thrash against the cage of his ribs.

It will all be fine...

\- - -

Parents, grandmother, and bride-to-be gone, Oliver sits alone. Their chatter still lingers in the air like the smell of rain after a summer storm, heavy and oppressive. Sprawling along his couch he takes a deep breath, exhales slowly. The sound of traffic and neighbors a dull roar in the background of his conscious as he closes his eyes.

It's been nine long months since he left Italy.

If he concentrates hard enough he can imagine that he feels the sun enveloping him in warmth, the grass beneath him brushing his skin with the breeze. If he forgets that he's in his apartment, in a moderately nice corner of New York, he can almost pretend that he's sat on a sofa listening to elegant hands coax enchanting melodies from black and white keys. And if he's feeling absolutely self-loathing, Oliver can feel those same hands drifting over his skin, warm breath sending goosebumps skittering down his frame. There's a whine stuck in his throat and he squeezes his eyes closed tighter.

He had been a fool to think that leaving Elio behind was the best thing to do. Well, maybe it had been at the time but now that the loss has had time to settle in, no. Elio needs to live his life without a shackle. And that's what he is. If he'd stayed he would have hindered the young man's life. A clean break, it's what he'd tried to give when he'd called him and broke the news of his engagement. What he had not anticipated was the absolute ache that he's come to savor.

The songs on the radio remind him of lithe limbs wrapping around him. The fruit that sits innocently in a bowl on his counter mocks him. A book that never travels far from his side makes it hard for him to breathe. He'd given it a month when he returned to New York, for things—his heart—to settle down. Two passed and the things he felt remained, an acute laceration on his soul. Call him dramatic, but every clichéd metaphor has become an accurate description of his pain, his longing.

When he proposed to Jackie, Oliver was doing what was expected of him. The words had burnt his tongue and left his chest a desolate wasteland after he'd uttered the question. Yes, he loves her; she's been all he knows in the scope of those things. They grew up side by side, families close and it's the natural way of things.

He has partitioned his life into two separate rooms. In the first, the air is stuffy, light dim. Memories are murky and speckled with pinpoints of happiness. Everything in that room is stacked neatly, in its proper place and not to be touched, only observed. Books are shelved with military precision and there's only a low soundtrack that's muffled, as if playing from another room. This room _screams_ order.

Then there's the second room. Sunlight streams through open curtains and the ceiling is arched beautifully. The memories here are crystal clear. He can _taste_ them and the all-encompassing passion for life that infuses every single one. The objects in this room are cluttered and artfully scattered. Pages of music and books, handwritten notes and ashtrays, it's messy and well loved; _lived in_. Soft music pirouettes through the air, a beloved cat weaving through your legs in a petition for attention. This room doesn't scream, it sighs like a caress against a lover's pale flesh.

These rooms are him before and after Elio.   
As they say, the show must go on, and so those things will remain forever stored in that room. It suspiciously resembles the Perlman's lounge. In a week's time he'll be a married man and his affair abroad will be nothing but a dream. These are things that he tells himself, that he whispers to his weary heart. These are the lies that fix the mask he wears securely to his face. He supposes maybe one day he'll be able to revisit the rocks that listened to him pour so much of his heart out. But there's a chance that those rocks have heard too much and will cry out themselves. Surely they will damn him. He almost wishes that they would. It would be easier that way.

Groaning in disgust Oliver pushes himself up and trudges into his bedroom, where he falls face-down on his bed.

\- o -

_Sunday, May 14 th _

The estate rises from the horizon like a sacred temple from a desert mirage. The tree lined drive that spills as a spring does from a mountain is reminiscent enough of another drive that it make's Oliver's muscles tense. But where the Perlman's villa was inviting and seemed to welcome him with open arms, his grandparents' home is beautiful and dares you to come closer. Its fairytale-esque appearance and old-world charm are the witch inviting you lovingly into her home; once you step through the door you may not escape. He spent quite a lot of time here while growing up and he's rather fond of the place. His mother's 'uncle' did always have a flare for dramatics and in every inch of the house it shows. From the fountain that holds court in the center of the circular drive to the majestically carved wooden door and its inlaid glass, everything is done with, well, flare. And those are only small details.

He suspects Elio would love it.

“Wow. . . and I thought my family had money. Kind of gaudy and European, though.”

“Gaudy?” Oliver glances at the brunette next to him with an arched brow.

“Yes. It's just a bit...much, isn't it? Is your uncle even foreign?”

“He's from here, and he just enjoys nice things.”

“Are you ever going to tell me that story? Your mother has always been very hush-hush when it comes to gossiping about her own family.”

“No,” he downshifts and slows just as a curtain is pushed aside next to the front door. “There's nothing to tell anyway.”

“Bullshit, Ollie! Your family is fucked up.”

“And yet you still said 'yes'.”

“Absolutely,” Jackie grins and leans across the console and kisses the corner of his mouth.

The engine shuts off as the door is thrown open and two men emerge from the house.

Dark strands shot through with gray, wide shoulders in an impeccable suit, a smile brighter than the moon. And Oliver thinks it's the moon because there's a darkness behind it, another side that not many know. 'Uncle' Napoleon has always been a wild card, one of those relatives that seemingly has it all, yet you never quite know where he _got it_. And then there's his grandfather. While never prone to emotional displays, it's always been clear that his mother dearly loves her parents. Despite his father's dislike of her dad. Hair the color of faded wheat and stubbornly parted, he is the well from which Oliver sprang.

Exiting the car, Oliver rounds the hood to open the door for Jackie. She pats down her pretty, springtime dress and smooths out the wrinkles in his button-down. Offering her a smile, he turns to the pair.

“I see you did not get lost after all,” Illya Kuryakin deadpans in a voice that's had its accent softened by the years.

“No, Sir. We ran into traffic.”

“Jesus,” Napoleon Solo remarks out of turn.

“No, he is Oliver. You forget your meds again, Cowboy?”

Before Oliver has a chance to ask what brought that on, there are arms wrapped around him, the strength in them deceptive. Napoleon Solo is a snake and he will hug you, but the second you get cozy he'll snap your neck. And that's his father talking. Shit. Untangling his fingers from Jackie's he returns the man's affection. It has been a couple years since he's seen him for longer than any given family dinner. The older man pulls back, hands clasping Oliver's biceps as he takes a moment to scan his face. For a moment he flashes back to a much shorter man in the exact same position; he'd felt like Professor Perlman could see through him then, too.

“My God, he's a carbon copy of you, Peril.” His grandfather's response is in Russian and Napoleon releases him with delighted laughter. “And who do we have here?” His uncle turns to Jackie and takes her hand, muttering something (Oliver thinks it's French) over it before kissing it.

Oliver makes introductions, embraces his grandfather, and they are ushered into the house. Solo Estate, while in Napoleon's name, is occupied by more than him alone. Oliver's grandparents (and mother) have lived here in the past. Illya returned to Russia when Oliver's mother was 4 and after a year of nothing but letters, Napoleon went to 'fetch' him. Shortly after his homecoming he and Oliver's grandmother, Gaby, divorced amicably and she moved out, taking Nora with her. Since then he and Solo have lived in the sprawling house. At least this is the story that his grandmother tells. As Jackie had mentioned, Nora, Oliver's mother, isn't big on gossip and refuses to speak much about her childhood. Add that to his father's unreasonable hatred of his in-laws, and you have the reason why Oliver grew up mostly with his father's Jewish family. His Russian heritage had been something that he quietly inquired about when neither of his parents were present. Not that he ever got any straight answers, come to think of it.

\- - -

“Well, I heard that you behaved yourselves.”

A glass filled with amber liquid is raised over the back of the couch, the only acknowledgment the statement requires. Napoleon turns a page in his book. Illya's eyes remain closed, a twitch of his lips his single tell. A man quietly croons in Italian from the record player in the corner of the study. Gaby sighs and takes a seat in an armchair. Napoleon ignores her glare and finishes the chapter. Sighing dramatically, he bookmarks his place and closes the volume before directing an expectant look at her.

“Was there something you needed?”

“Oliver looks remarkably like Illya, doesn't he?”

“There are differences, should one observe long enough.”

“Da,” Illya agrees but otherwise could be asleep.

“Oh?”

Tossing back the last swallow of scotch in his glass, Napoleon shrugs. “Illya has a scar. Oliver has freckles and doesn't train his hair. Peril no longer looks at me with suspicion.”

Illya opens his eyes and lets his head lull along the cushions to look at Napoleon _just so_. Gaby laughs and Napoleon groans. He slumps back and crosses his arms over his chest in a pout. Years have passed and still they gang up on him. He is cursed.

“Solo, you set yourself up for that one.”

A heavy weight wedges itself atop his shoulder and a nose nuzzles his jaw.

“I am slacking in my old age, I'll admit.”

“Not old,” Illya states quietly.

“Oliver,” Gaby switches gears from gaiety to serious in a breath. “He has changed since I saw him last, though. Did you know he went to Italy for six weeks last summer?”

“Tell me it wasn't Rome?”

It's Illya's turn to sigh. Gaby nods. Napoleon shudders and spits out a curse that his Russian partner prefers. Said Russian steals his book and pats ineffectively at the American's thigh. Secretly thrilled that Illya is being rather affectionate tonight, Napoleon curses Italy. It's where everything changes, where your worldview goes askew and nothing is ever the same. He knows from experience, thank you very much.

“Nora says that he went to work on his book or something other.” Gaby stands and fetches herself a drink. “But,” she takes her seat and curls her feet under her, “I'm under the impression that something happened while he was there.”

“And what brought you to this conclusion?”

“Because, my dear Napoleon, he looked exactly like our Illya before Russia.”

The music is the only sound in the room as that sentence transports them all back to a time that they normally dare not speak of. Illya is a tense presence along his side as he lifts his head from its home. Napoleon closes his eyes tight at the rush of emotions that swell in his chest; guilt, anger, terror, and an ache so severe he'd thought surely his soul had been ripped in two. And if that had been what he'd felt, then it'd been tenfold for his Peril. Jesus, he'd royally screwed things back then. Surprisingly, it's Illya that breaks the pregnant silence.

“He did not. . .”

“You didn't look hard enough, Illya.”

Napoleon rewinds his day and reevaluates his interactions with his adopted nephew. In a new light he does notice small things. (He really is slipping in his old age. Peril was right all those years ago, he's a terrible spy.) Oliver's eyes were a bit dim, less like a scared groom and more like a tired man. He'd stared at the peach cobbler Napoleon had lovingly made before barely eating two bites of it. And, he'd been a bit quieter than he'd ever known him to be. Definitely interesting.

“What is wrong with him?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Gaby hums as she takes a sip of the clear liquid in her glass. He isn't sure if it's water or vodka.

“It's obvious, Peril, he's in love.”

“Da, he's getting married in week. Here.” Glancing at the blond, Napoleon arches a brow and waits a beat. He smirks when Illya's eyes widen.

“And there it is,” Gaby comments.

“He loves another?”

“Precisely.”

“I don't like the way your eyes are sparkling, Ms. Teller.”

“No,” Illya responds immediately to her giddy laugh.

“Oh, yes. My darling, Illya, stupid boys will be my mission until they lay me in the ground.” She leans froward and lowers her voice. “Don't you want to know _who_ has our Oliver so utterly tied?”

“Happy endings call for messy middles,” Napoleon retorts and earns long fingers gripping his thigh in an order for silence.

“We do not meddle in his life. He finds his own way.”

“Illya, what if he found something in Italy that's like what you have with Napoleon?”

The question silences the Russian. Napoleon drops his gaze to the hand that holds his thigh; fingers remain steadfast and no longer tap out a warning, but now only tremble a bit. He feels the flush creep up his neck to paint his cheekbones like some kind of teenager speaking to their crush. He is too old for this shit. Gaby's glass clinks as she sets it on the table and takes her leave with nothing more than a kiss to each of their brows. And she turns the light out on them.

Illya stands and offers Napoleon his hand.

Letting the taller man pull him to his feet, he sighs. Nothing is ever easy with them, is it? Even their family is cursed by this thing. And that's what love is, it's a thing that turns you inside out until you don't know who you are anymore. It is a parasite that takes root in your vital organs and slowly stains the tissue. It is a wonderful and hideous _thing_. A warm palm curls around his nape, a thumb hooking under his chin and tilting it up. Moonlight from the gap in the curtains illuminates a single strip of the face he knows better than his own. Illya's forehead rests against his and his breath ghosts overs Napoleon's lips. He'll happily die.

“If what she says is true, then—”

“Then,” Napoleon interrupts, “ we will gently unravel everything.”

“You are trouble, Napoleon Solo,” Illya whispers.

“I know,” he presses his lips to Illya's in punctuation.

\- o -

_Tuesday, May 16 th _

“So, I'm standing there staring into the fridge looking for something to throw together for breakfast. I grab the eggs and slam the door shut, and there he is on one knee. I thought he'd dropped something! But then he whips out a ring box from the pocket of his robe and I _drop_ the eggs all over his lap.”

Oliver rolls his eyes as the table erupts into peals of laughter. Jackie blushes as Napoleon teases her and Gaby hides her smile behind her tea cup. Oliver takes a sip of his orange juice.

“Okay, it definitely wasn't my smoothest moment!”

“There is now no doubt you, my dear boy, have your grandfather's genes.”

Illya rolls his eyes making them all laugh again.

“I am plenty smooth, Cowboy,” Illya sates as he stands.

“Oh, come now, boys! There will be no snipping today!”

Oliver watches as his grandfather bends down and says something in his native tongue to his ex-wife, making her smile. He notes that though he speaks to Gaby, Illya's hand is braced on Uncle Napoleon's shoulder. The noise around him bends and the scene blurs before him. For a moment he can almost smell sun-warmed and sweaty skin, feel the sharp just of bones under his fingers as he'd tried to give Elio a massage. It'd been an excuse to touch him, the thrill of feeling him beneath his palms while everyone else looked on. Later Elio swore he hadn't had a clue...

“ _God, we wasted so many days. Why didn't you give me a sign?!”_

“ _I did!”_

“ _You didn't give me a sign!.”_

“ _I did.”_

“ _Wh—When?”_

“ _Do you remember when we were playing volleyball? And I_ touched _you... just to show you...that I liked you...”_

_His hands were warm despite the late hour as those talented fingers gripped his thighs, like he didn't dare to let him go. He kissed him between breaths, just as in awe of Elio as he seemed to be of him, of Oliver wanting him in return. God, what he wouldn't give to stay under the moonlight with this incredible work of art. To spend another day basking in his presence. He wanted—_

“Ollie? Earth to Oliver...”

Blinking the world back into focus, Oliver glances at Jackie. Her brow is arched in question and for a mere flick of a second there's something behind her eyes, gone before he can name it. He offers her an apologetic smile and shrugs.

“Sorry, I was remembering what came after the proposal.”

“This we must hear!” Napoleon proclaims and the brunette blushes furiously.

“No, that's not really...”

“She said 'yes', Solo, that is what happened afterward,” his grandmother saves them all.

She had in fact said yes, then they'd proceeded to fuck right there on the kitchen floor, broken eggs and breakfast forgotten.

“Oh, you're no fun, Gaby.”

“Yes, I am,” she makes a face at him and stands. “Alright, come on, Jackie it's time to get out of this testosterone fest for a while.” Oliver watches as she kisses his uncle's cheek and whispers something to him, in much the same way his grandfather had before he'd excused himself. Napoleon sighs in what appears as resignation, but returns the gesture. Jackie jars him from his observation by sliding a small palm along his nape.

“See you afterwhile?”

Humming in response, he wipes his mouth with his napkin and peers up at her when she stands. Her lips are bitter from the coffee she drank but he smiles when she pulls away. With a squeeze to his nape she pushes her chair in and follows his grandmother out.

“Later!” he can't help but to toss at their retreating backs.

\- - -

“Alright, you've been here almost three days and I've yet to hear about your trip abroad.”

Oliver nearly chokes on his drink but manages to swallow it down without embarrassing himself. From his chair in the shade, Illya glares at Napoleon. The dark haired man simply smirks. Oliver clears his throat and cautiously sets his glass down on the table.

“There isn't much to tell,” even he thinks his response is lame and telling.

“Really, now,” Napoleon arches a brow, as he's prone to do, and stares at the young man.

“I went to a very small town near Crema and stayed with a professor and his family at their villa. We discussed art and I helped him sort through slides. I worked on my book some...” Oliver shrugs as if it was all very mundane. His heart beats hard in anger.

“Sounds very ...droll. Surely you had some fun, though?”

“Well, I did play poker in town, in a little cafe-type place, went dancing with the locals.”

Napoleon leans forward and Illya sighs. “Now see, we're getting somewhere! Any pretty girls?”

“Of course, it's Italy,” Oliver laughs.

“Of course,” Napoleon smiles and it's with shark's teeth. “Did any catch your eye?”

“Napoleon,” his grandfather's voice is a stern warning.

Oliver's gaze flits between them, his pulse skipping. There's no way they know anything. He has nothing to fear from his meddling uncle.

“I wasn't there to find a date, Uncle.” The dapper man sits back in his chair and brings his tumbler to his lips. Oliver turns his gaze out toward the green of the backyard, those piercing eyes never straying from him. He swallows thickly and reaches for his own drink once more. The alcohol burns on its way down but Oliver is silently grateful for the sting. “I did see a local girl, Chiara, for a few days. Mind you, Jackie and I weren't exactly together at the time.”

“You were not?” Surprisingly it's Illya that asks.

“No,” Oliver shakes his head watching the condensation run down his glass in long drops. “She didn't want me to go and was quiet angry. We fought before I left.”

“Oh dear,” Napoleon comments, stretching his legs out under the table.

“Mhm, so after she all but kicked me out, I wasn't about to go thousands of miles away and cry over her. And Italy, B, Crema, it's all so _beautiful_ , the people, everything. I didn't want to waste an opportunity like that.”

“And this Chiara was there and you enjoyed yourself. I don't blame you, Oliver.”

“Yes, your uncle was once a ladies' man.”

Napoleon and Oliver both laugh at the statement, Napoleon at the ridiculousness of it and Oliver at the mere idea. His uncle is a flirt, yes, but he's so over the top he doesn't think he could ever picture any smart woman falling for his spiel. It doesn't make sense anyway. He's rich as Satan and handsome as sin, so how come he isn't married with kids of his own? Surely if he'd been such a charmer some woman would have snatched him up by now. He wouldn't be living in this house with his divorced best friend.

“How come you never married, Uncle Napoleon?”

“I'm still young.”

Illya purses his lips and blows a breath out slowly, nodding at Napoleon and the man laughs, loud and easy. Oliver can't help but to share a smile with his grandfather. He feels himself relaxing now that the conversation has been diverted from talk of Italy. For the rest of the afternoon they sit and talk, drinking themselves silly. Dinner is a loud affair filled with laughter and good food. It makes his inebriated mind long for another table, a different family. His mother arrives before dessert looking harried. He watches as she nearly melts into her father's embrace. She only ever seems to come alive when she's within these walls. He finds it all very curious.

After dinner he begs off a nightcap and lets Jackie drag him off to bed. That night he dreams of dark curls and a flushed face resting atop his chest. Crickets chirp in time with the waves that lap at the rocks below his bare feet. Moonlight shimmers off the water's surface and the pale arch of Elio's back. ' _Stay_ ' he whispers and Oliver's hands shake.

\- o -

_Wednesday, May 17 th _

“Really, I want to choke you.”

“Not before I've had an aspirin and my coffee, please.”

Gaby glares at Napoleon from her perch on the couch. Illya sighs heavily and pushes Napoleon into the opposite corner of the couch. The dark haired man adjusts his robe and delicately lets his head rest against the cushions. It is much too early for violence. Gaby watches Illya pour his partner a mug and shake two pills from the bottle they keep stashed in here. He murmurs in Russian, a low croon really as he sets the mug down on the low table and brushes a hand across Napoleon's brow.

“He is not as young as he once was, Gaby. Give him break,” his lips tip up in a tiny smile as he lowers himself down between them. She snorts and Napoleon groans in distress.

“Low blow, Peril. You're Russian, you can drink like a fish and be fine. I, on the other hand, am American. I only _think_ I can out-drink you.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. Gaby drank half a bottle of Vodka in Italy and dan—”

“I will break your arm, again, if you finish that sentence,” she grumbles and moves her hand from his mouth.

Napoleon would roll his eyes but he's afraid they'll get stuck. He swallows the aspirin down with a swig of coffee instead. Sighing he props his feet up onto the table, crosses them at the ankle, and breathes in the scent of fresh coffee.

“When is Waverly arriving?”

“Tomorrow, same as the others,” Gaby twists a bit so she can see the two men.

“I thought he was in Japan?” Illya asks stealing Solo's coffee and taking a sip.

“He was until Sunday, but he wanted to see Nora and Oliver so he wrapped it up early.”

“Do they know he's coming?”

“Who's coming where?” Nora questions as she slips into the study.

Gaby's face lights up at the sight of her daughter and she stretches out a hand to her. “No one, dear.”

Nora, clad in faded pajamas and face bare of makeup, pads over to the bar and pours herself a cup of coffee. Illya smirks when she doesn't doctor it in any way and sips it straight away. Their eyes follow her as she moves into the room and settles into the armchair closest to her mother. Having become a mother sooner than she'd ever expected, Gaby and Nora appear more as sisters than mother and daughter. Nora has her mother's dark hair and short stature, but her eyes are all Illya.

“You look well rested,” Napoleon takes his coffee back and frowns that it's half-empty.

“And you look like you found a liquor store and drank it.”

“Your son helped... and your father.”

Nora glances at her mother and they sigh in unison. Napoleon thanks the good Lord that Nora never went into the business. One Gaby is all that he can handle, to be frankly honest. He's glad that she seems to have followed in Illya's footsteps in the attitude department, her face of cool detachment fixed firmly in place.

“Uncle Leo, I'll thank you not to corrupt my son.”

“He's a growing boy and has excellent taste in spirits, therefore no corruption took place.”

“Cowboy has a point,” Illya kindly points out causing his daughter to glare in their direction.

Gaby pointedly dismisses them and turns to face her daughter. Soon they're lost in conversation of what needs to be done and oblivious to the two men in the room. Napoleon drains the last of his first cup and rests his head on Illya's shoulder. Lips press briefly to his forehead. The blonde's voice is soft when he speaks.

“Feeling better?”

“Much, thank you.” Illya hums and Napoleon feels him nod. Careful to keep his tone low, he can't help to bring up what they learned yesterday. “Do you suppose that girl he mentioned is who has him out of sorts?”

“No,” the reply is instant and sure. “I do not think he was even fond of her. There was something else, _someone_ else.”

“Yes, so it would seem... He desperately wanted me to stop talking.”

“Many people feel that way.”

“Ouch.”

Illya huffs a quiet laugh, shrugging him off and meeting his eyes, his own glittering with affection. Napoleon shakes his empty mug at him and Illya pushes to his feet without a word. His fingertips graze his palm when he takes it and Napoleon has to fight down a shiver. Letting his head rest back once again he lets the melodic voices of the women lull him into a slight doze.

He's thrilled that Illya still makes his heart skip and his pulse flutter. After everything that they've gone through, all the years that have frayed their edges, they remain intact. Once upon a time he'd thought that he'd never have this, never wake up to the one person on the planet that he loves more than anything. There'd been days that he'd figured he'd seen his last sunset, times when he'd thought he'd breathed his last breath. But that damn Russian and his terrible little cheerleader had kept him afloat. He owes them his life and so much more.

“He's knackered,” Gaby whispers.

“He will be fine,” Illya settles back into his seat and Napoleon can't stop the smile that creeps over his face like the sunrise over the horizon.

\- - -

“I promise we'll return him in one piece!”

Uncle Napoleon's words sound as if they've been dipped in glitter and made to shine. Jackie narrows her eyes at Oliver. He grins.

“You'll behave with my mother and grandmother, right?”

“No. We're going to hire a stripper,” she stage whispers. “We've already pooled our singles.”

“You're despicable, Jack.”

“And you're an asshole, Oliver,” she punctuates the insult with a press of her lips to his.

“Ah, young love,” Napoleon smirks, winking at Jackie as he skirts the hood of the SUV.

“That's my cue,” Oliver squeezes her in a hug before letting go and turning to get into the backseat. He watches her dart back into the house as he buckles up and Napoleon turns the engine over. Illya glances back, presumably to make sure he has enough leg room. For an SUV it's roomy enough and he gives his grandfather a smile. It's definitely not as compact as those tiny Italian cars. Elio had been so offended that he'd been made to contort into the backseat while Oliver rode shotgun with Mr. P.

He shakes off the memory as they pull away from the drive, circling the fountain and setting off. The further they wind down the tree-shaded lane, the more pressure Oliver feels lifting from his chest. Yesterday Jackie had her last dress fitting and spent the day with his grandmother. Today is his turn. Uncle Napoleon has sworn that his tailor will have no trouble fitting him since he's pretty much a copy of his grandfather. The women in Oliver's life decided for him that it's a great idea. He's along for the ride. Just like everything else.

Not surprisingly, everyone is correct. Less than an hour later, Oliver peers into a full-length mirror. He sees a blonde with a faded tan, and tired eyes wearing an expensive tux. A derisive snicker whispers through his head. He closes his eyes, shutting out his reflection. Red swim trunks tangled with a well worn button-down flash by his mind's eye. Pale skin, despite the time spent in the sun, wearing his clothes. A request to leave something behind. He's getting married on Saturday. His heart thumps spitefully.

Suddenly his collar is too tight. Reaching up to undo the buttons, he pries his eyes open and ignores the looks of the attendants that stand just off to the side pretending to be busy. Stepping from the small platform, Oliver makes his way back to the fitting rooms. He needs air, but first he needs to get back into his own clothes. His hands fumble with buttons as he rounds the corner and glances up to see which room he'd left his things in. What he sees instead pulls him up short.

Illya towers over Napoleon, his broad palms cradling the man's face like he's something irrevocably precious. His uncle's arms are looped casually, comfortably around his grandfather's neck. They're brow to brow. Oliver's breath stalls in his lungs as he watches Illya press his lips almost reverently to Napoleon's. His parents aren't very affectionate toward one another. His grandparents are more so, but not overly expressive, even divorced they've always had an air of familiarity about the other. Uncle Napoleon is the tactile one, an arm around Gaby's shoulders or one curled around Illya's waist. Sitting close... But this is, this... Oliver is at a loss.

He wonders if that's what he looked like when he watched Elio. Had they been that comfortable and familiar with one another after that first (or second) time? Had Elio fit against him like Napoleon does Illya? The only couple more in love he's ever witnessed had been the Perlmans. And there it is. Love.

They are in _love_.

“Illya,” Napoleon whispers.

There's a smile in his voice like he savors the very taste of it.

Oliver quietly retreats and once clear, turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the exit. He seriously needs air before his heart rips its way from his chest. An attendant tries to stop him and Oliver brushes him off. He re-buttons his shirt partially and squints into the mid-day sun. People cast him odd glances but he ignores them, and takes off walking. He walks until he finds a bench.

Oliver isn't sure how long he sits there watching the world go by, but when they find him he's relatively calm. Napoleon lowers himself to his left and Illya to his right. No one says a word for a while, then his uncle breaks the silence.

“Well, Gaby is going to murder me.”

“Da,” Illya agrees, accent thick with nerves.

“Does my mother know?”

“Yes.”

“Dad?”

“No, but he suspects...”

Oliver laughs and drags a hand over his face. It explains so much. His father always steered clear of his father-in-law and despised Napoleon Solo. Nora defended them with an iron resolve and Oliver never understood why his dad hated them. Grandpa let him marry his daughter after all. But now, he gets it. Richard's never quite flat out said it, but he's made it clear that he doesn't believe in homosexuality, let alone support it. Jesus.

“I need a cigarette,” he mutters.

“I wasn't aware you smoked.”

Oliver shrugs. His smoking habit isn't the topic of the hour. The fact that his grandfather is apparently happily shacked up, and in love with his uncle _is_. God, how is this his life?

“Let's change, then we will explain.” Illya promises.

It isn't a question and Oliver nods. Standing, he quietly follows them back to the store. He apologizes profusely to the attendants and Napoleon charms them with a tale of a nervous groom. In the dressing room Oliver laughs as he changes. Nervous groom his ass. More like a pining groom. A despicable groom that is about to make a massive mistake. Fuck, how is he going to walk down the aisle and promise himself to Jackie when he'd rather be elsewhere? Why the fuck did it take seeing how stupidly in love his _grandfather_ is to realize this?

This time when he leaves the shop it's in his own clothes, and Napoleon and Illya are with him.

They have lunch at an upscale restaurant that's Napoleon's favorite. It isn't until after they order and their server brings them a bottle of wine that Illya speaks. He takes a sip of his water, ( _'I am driving, Cowboy. Water for me.'_ ) and leans back in his chair, gaze meeting Oliver's steadily.

“Your grandmother, Napoleon, and I work for a government agency.”

“I know...”

“No, you really don't,” Napoleon helpfully supplies from behind his wine glass.

When his steak is a mere memory and his stomach is full, Oliver's head is swimming with new information. He also has an entirely new view of his family. He drains his wine and waves Napoleon's offer of a top-up away.

“So you and grandma Gaby were never actually married?”

“No, it was for mission,” Illya averts his eyes and though the house lights are dim they can see his blush. “Your mother was happy accident.”

“Okay... I think I've wrapped my head around that, but it still doesn't explain you two,” he motions between the two men.

“I think I can handle it from here, Peril.” Illya nods in relief and Napoleon sets his napkin down giving Oliver his undivided attention. “When Nora was four, Illya and I were sent back to Berlin. What was supposed to have been an easy mission, observe and report, didn't quite go the way we expected. The mark was a bit more dangerous than we were informed.”

Illya mutters in Russian and Napoleon shoots him a pained look.

“Long tale short, our informant was a double agent and I was caught in the crossfire. I was shot three times, broken ribs, concussion, punctured lung, all that fun stuff,” he waves a dismissive hand and Oliver swallows thickly. “We were pulled out immediately and shipped back to the states. Now, in our line of work you're told not to make attachments. They make you weak and make those you're attached to targets.”

“But you never listen.”

“No, I do not seem to be programmed with that function, do I?” Napoleon shrugs, but his expression is somber. “I was already too deep in and I thought I was dying. Oliver, when your life is flashing before your eyes, I promise you that you cannot control what spews from your mouth.”

“You told him how you felt?” Oliver guesses to which Napoleon smiles beautifully.

“Right in one. When I woke up back in New York it took me a while to realize my mistake.”

Illya snorts as Oliver asks; “Mistake?”

“Your grandfather is Russian and back then our 'kind' weren't very popular. He and Gaby nursed me back to health and then he ran.”

“I did not run! I had score to settle.”

“He ran,” Napoleon speaks over Illya. “Waverly swore that he had eyes on him but my Peril alarms were blaring. After a year of nothing but short letters and even shorter phone calls, I went after him. The rest is history.”

“The man that shot Solo was Russian. He did not like my new friends. He could not get to Gaby or our child, so he went after Cowboy. I had score to settle.”

“Jesus,” Oliver refills his glass and drinks deeply from the red liquid. His family are a bunch of spies and here he is a 'scholar'. An author that's fretting over loving someone he didn't even know existed a year ago. He feels pathetic. “That is a lot to process.”

“Please don't tell Gaby or your mother that we told you the details. None of us like to talk about it, and Nora only knows the watered down and abridged version.”

“I don't think I could tell them if I tried,” he peers into the crimson wine at his distorted reflection.

“And you are ...okay with us, Napoleon and me?”

Oliver looks up at his grandfather who everyone says he's a spitting image of. The man's shoulders are tense like he's waiting for disappointment, but there's hope in his eyes. Oliver glances across to Napoleon and meets his gaze. The dark haired man arches his brow in entreaty. He suddenly wants to tell them about Elio, how intelligent and talented he is. He wants to sing his praises because he knows now, that out of everyone, _they_ will understand.

“Absolutely,” he replies instead.

The men breathe a collective sigh of relief and Napoleon grins.

“See, I told you he's nothing like his father!”

\- o -

_Thursday, May 18 th _

Oliver sleeps much later than usual and wakes to an empty bed. He turns onto his back and takes a moment to stretch his sleep heavy limbs and wake them. Then it hits him. Everything that transpired the day before, everything he learned. He drags Jackie's pillow over his face and groans, loudly. Illya and Napoleon are all but married. Gaby was never actually married to his grandfather. They're all fucking spies. And he's still in love with Elio. Fuck.

Tossing the pillow aside he rolls from bed. Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, book in hand, he goes in search of food. Today he's hiding and he's 98% sure that Uncle Napoleon will cover for him. He backtracks upon hearing feminine laughter in the sitting room and takes a different route to the kitchen. There's a plate of breakfast with his name on it that he makes quick work of. Opting for coffee instead of juice, he slips out onto the back deck and finds his uncle soaking up the sun in a lounger.

“Ah, there you are. Sleep well?”

“Too long; my head feels fuzzy.”

“Find the plate your grandmother fixed you? And the coffee?”

“Yes, and now I'm going to go find a quiet spot for the day. Think you could run interference?”

Napoleon cracks an eye open and looks up at him. “You sure?”

“Definitely.”

“Alright, go on then. I'll send someone to find you later when the wolves descend.”

Oliver laughs, squeezes Napoleon's shoulder in thanks, and jogs down the steps. He crosses the backyard and disappears into the trees. It takes him a good ten minutes to find it, but he grins when he sees the treehouse. As a kid he'd spent a few summers running through these woods, playing war with Illya and Napoleon, Hide 'N Seek with Gaby and Nora, and on occasion, Jackie. It's a simple treehouse, a box stuck between two tall trees, honestly. Napoleon had been horrified when Illya and Oliver declared it finished. He'd wanted to build a grand thing that they could all hide in, but Nora (and Illya) said no. Oliver remembers sleeping out here by himself and waking up to either Illya or Napoleon sacked out on the tiny deck.

Climbing the rickety stairs, Oliver feels nostalgia take hold. There's a lantern atop a card table that's been pushed into a corner and a single folding chair. Under the only window is a dusty beanbag chair that's seen better days. After he opens the window, a little elbow grease required, it's with a sense of triumph that he flops down into the beanbag. He laughs at the cloud of dust it produces. Settling in, he carefully reaches for his coffee and book.

He thinks, again; Elio would love this place.

Letting his head rest against the wall, he remembers Elio's excitement that day on Monet's Berm. He'd been so happy to share it with him. He'd made sure that Oliver knew it was _his_ spot and no one else's. If he concentrates hard enough he can hear the rush of water as they walk through it, feel the trickle of icy droplets soothing his heated skin. That day had been pivotal for him. He tasted what it was like to _want_ someone and not know exactly why. But now he knows why, and it's eating him alive.

\- - -

“Oliver! Oliver, are you up there? I'm coming up!”

Gaby carefully climbs up to the treehouse and peeks inside. She sighs upon finding her grandson slouched and asleep in the ratty beanbag. She'd told Illya to toss it out years ago. Sidestepping an empty mug, she gingerly picks up the open book resting on his chest, that's a second from sliding to the floor. Turning it over in her hands, a manicured brow rises. It's a hardback edition of 'Armance' by Stendhal, and well loved from the looks of it. Flipping through it, she pauses at the sight of handwriting on one of the front pages.

_''Zwischen Immer und Nie,' for you in silence, somewhere in Italy...'_

There's a bit more but it's been smudged and she can't quite make it out. Regardless, the inscription makes something around her heart flutter. Carefully closing the book, she takes a moment to really look at her grandson. His brow is furrowed like he's dreaming something unpleasant, and he just looks tired. Even while napping he appears troubled.

“What are we going to do with you, my little bear?” she whispers, the old pet name escaping her before she thinks about it.

How much he looks like her Illya. It's startling and breathtaking all at once. She's watched him grow into a man right before her eyes. And now she worries that if he isn't careful he'll make mistakes and waste time. Time is precious and equally vicious. Not that she would change a thing, she is pleased how her life turned out. She only hopes that Oliver doesn't follow in their footsteps and lie to himself and those that love him. Jackie is a wonderful girl, but Gaby knows without a doubt that if Oliver stands at that alter in two days' time and pledges himself to her, he'll regret it.

Placing a hand on his shoulder she shakes him gently awake.

“Shit.”

“Watch your tongue, young man,” Gaby smirks and offers him a hand.

“Yes, Ma'am,” he smiles sheepishly and takes her hand, heaving to his feet.

“Don't worry, Solo covered for you beautifully. The guests are beginning to arrive, though.”

Oliver sighs, dusting off his behind and stooping to pick up his mug. Back to the stage, then. He follows Gaby out of the treehouse and watches cautiously as she descends the steps. Carding fingers through his hair, he wipes away the cobwebs of sleep. He'd been dreaming of the train again, the last time he saw Elio's face. Gaby clears her throat when the backyard is just in sight. Oliver glances at his grandmother and notices that she's holding something. She offers it to him and his chest tightens when he sees his book. Fuck, he'd forgotten.

“You fell asleep with it open and I saved it from a dusty end.”

“Thank you,” he whispers and folds it against his chest. Here in this sanctuary of trees and pinpoints of light filtering through the growing canopy of green, he feels unworthy. Elio's words are forever burnt into his mind and he doesn't want them to be 'in silence' any longer. He wants to yell to the heavens, to petition the very universe for another chance. A warm palm on his elbow stops him.

“Oliver, tell me who was in silence, somewhere in Italy?”

He laughs because if he doesn't he'll cry. Gaby doesn't laugh with him, nor does she ask again. Instead she reaches up and lays a hand over his poorly concealed heart.

“Whatever you choose to do, know that we will love you unconditionally and this has always been your home.” She pats his chest when he nods then steps back. “Good. I'm going to go ahead and play host. You take a moment. Come in when you're ready.”

He watches her go and leans back against a tree. Turning his eyes to the glittering canopy he gasps a breath into his greedy lungs. Gaby has just offered him sanctuary and acceptance without even having heard him out. He'd told Elio once that he was lucky to have Samuel and Annella, but he'd never mentioned how lucky _he_ is. He had focused on his father and what's been drilled into his head for as long as he can remember. Oliver had never taken the time to look for the same kind of souls in his own world, and now he knows that they've been here all along.

Taking a deep breath, he wipes the wetness from his cheeks and tucks his book under his arm. He can't go through with this. He cannot in good conscience marry Jackie on Saturday. Not when Elio has carved his heart from his chest and kept it for himself. Not when he is in everything that Oliver does. Hurting her is something she will hate him for, and yes it makes him feel terrible... There's a 'but' to that sentence, one with curling, dark hair and long fingers that move him to tears in many ways. _ElioElioElio—OliverOliverOliver_ is a steady thrum throughout his veins as he crosses the backyard.

“Jackie!” Oliver hollers as soon as the backdoor closes behind him. He has to tell her now. He has to tell _someone_ lest he explode. Better to rip the band-aid off quickly, right?

“In here, Ollie,” she steps into the hall, the bright smile on her face dimming. “Are you alright? You look like hell.”

“I fell asleep in the treehouse.”

She rolls her eyes and reaches for his hand. “Come on, you're missing the fun.” Left with no option than to trail behind her, they enter the sitting room. The first thing he notices is that the curtains are open and the air is warm, the sun tinting the room in delicate gold. There's a chorus of cheers at his arrival. The second thing that stands out are the extra people among his family. Though only three, his breath stutters in his lungs. Oliver's eyes slide right over Waverly where he's smirking by Gaby's side. Instead they settle on the couple sat upon his grandmother's settee.

“You came?”

“We wouldn't miss it for the world, Ulliva!” Annella Perlman grins bright as the sun that backlights her. He mirrors her grin and glances to her left. Mr. P 's smile is warm and something inside Oliver breathes, an ache lessens. Without thought he's across the room and wrapping them into his arms. Annella's perfume is sweet, reminding him of her fruit trees. Samuel's hug is strong and his giddy laughter makes Oliver's eyes tear up again. Oblivious to his family looking on, Oliver pulls back and smiles down at them. Surely this is a sign.

“We're so happy to be here, Oliver.”

“Thank you so much for coming! I—I'm in shock, I think.”

Annella laughs and someone behind him clears their throat.

“Ollie, you're terrible.”

Rolling his eyes, he steps aside calling on the manners he quickly forgot.

“I apologize, Jack, I'm still groggy from my nap.”

Dinner is a hectic affair with new mouths to feed, but Napoleon manages to pull it off without a hitch. They reconvene back in the sitting room when there's no room for another bite. True introductions made, the conversation settles into a moderate hum. Oliver sits in the floor by Samuel's feet, and he tries to get his act together. Stories are swapped like precious goods and he basks under Mr. P's voice and Annella's knowing gaze. If he lets himself pretend, he could be in another time and place. All that's missing... well, there are lots of things missing. A tap on his shoulder draws his attention and he glances up at Elio's father.

“Is there somewhere we can sneak off to for an after dinner mint?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Oliver unfolds from the floor and stretches. “Follow me.”

“Where are you going now, Ollie?”

“The Perlmans need a smoke break. The deck alright?” He asks Napoleon and his uncle nods. There's something in the older man's gaze that's been there all night; Oliver doesn't want to dissect it right now. Clapping his hands, he gestures toward the door, all smiles. He leads them into the bowels of the house and through the kitchen to the back deck. The door closes with a satisfying click behind them, leaving the three of them alone with the stars. Samuel offers Oliver a cigarette and he gladly takes it. The first drag of rich smoke into his lungs makes him close his eyes just to savor the taste. It's both time machine and teleport. For the second time in only a few hours, a hand at his elbow requests his attention.

“Jackie is lovely, Oliver.”

_But she isn't your son_ , he wants to reply.

“She is, isn't she?” Annella nods with a warm smile. The tip of Samuel's cigarette blazes hot as Oliver tries to find the courage he needs. The Professor's lips tilt and his eyes watch Oliver with far too much knowledge. Inhaling, he's assaulted with a flashback of another dinner under the stars, tendrils of smoke dancing up to meet their burning light. “How's Elio?” He's amazed he doesn't choke on his name.

“He's well,” Annella's gaze flickers to her husband's and back to Oliver.

“He would have—”

“No, don't,” Oliver quietly interrupts Samuel, moving to lean against the railing, and taking a deep drag from his cigarette. “Please don't make excuses. I know why, why he didn't come.”

“I would say I'm sorry, because I partly _am_ , but, Oliver he's been doing so well. It took a while, but...”

Blowing smoke into the night, Oliver's smile is brittle, likely to crack at the slightest pressure. “I have no one to blame but myself.”

Annella steps up beside him and rests a hand on his back. “I don't believe that's entirely true.”

Glancing between the two, Oliver sighs. He feels much older than he is and he's suddenly so very tired. These two wonderful people created the person he's gone over and he has nothing more to offer them than self-loathing and a seat at his pity party.

They speak no more of their son or of Oliver's transgressions. When they're finished he follows them back inside where Napoleon offers to show them up to their room. He bids them goodnight with a genuine smile because despite everything, he is happy to see them. Pouring himself a glass of water, he drains half of it then follows the sound of voices.

“There you are,” Jackie meets him in the foyer.

“Here I am,” he tugs her into a loose hug, frowning when she immediately pulls away.

“Oliver, you smell like an ashtray.”

“I might have slipped...”

Jackie frowns, waving a hand in front of her. “My foot is going to slip and kick your ass. Please take a shower before coming to bed.”

“I've already had a shower,” he protests.

“Then sleep in another room!” Oliver stares at her. At this precise moment he wants to tell her it's over. Elio never cared if he smoked, had actually stolen his cigarettes when he ran out himself. Now would be an opportune time to shut everything down. “Wait, where are you going? Ollie!”

“I need a drink. Goodnight, Jack,” he tosses behind him as he turns from her.

He's a coward.

The halls are dark, everyone gone to their beds. It's the perfect time to dip into Uncle Napoleon's stash of expensive whiskey. His steps falter outside of his grandfather's study though, the quiet strains of music filtering into the hall. Rapping gently against the door he waits until he hears Illya's voice beckon him in. Entering the room he notes that it's just his grandfather and a quietly playing instrumental piece. Without a word Oliver pours himself two fingers of Napoleon's favorite spirit and takes a seat on the leather couch.

The melody is haunting, piano and cello; two dancers twirling languidly across a dance floor. Sipping the amber liquid, he stares blindly into the small fire Illya has lit, despite the fact that it's May. There's something almost hopeful in the notes, a desperate hope that calls to him. His heart races as the music soars, cello crying out for _something_.

“His name is Elio.” Illya's own glass pauses mid-air as Oliver speaks. He lowers it slowly to his thigh, not saying a word. “He's absolutely amazing.” Oliver empties his tumbler and as the whiskey burns his throat, the words he's dared not to speak aloud till now tumble from his lips. “And I'm in love with him.” Illya stares at him intensely for a good minute then stands. He plucks Oliver's glass from his numb fingers and moves to the bar. When he hands it back, it's filled nearly full and he takes a seat in an armchair, angling himself to face the younger man.

“He is the Professor's son.”

“Yes,” Oliver inhales slowly and exhales.

“And do they know?”

“Oh, yes. Not that they did while it was going on... Well,” he laughs, “they probably did.” He takes a drink and dares to meet his grandfather's eyes. What he finds there is a mixture of concern and curiosity. Illya settles back into his seat and stretches his legs out.

“Tell me about him.”

\- o -

_Saturday, May 20 th – The Big Day _

There's a perfunctory tap at the door before it swings open. “Rise and shine, boy of mine!”

Oliver glances over, his brows rising high as his mother pushes into his room past his father. Closing his book he sets it carefully aside and pushes up from the window seat. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” his father pulls him into a stiff, one-armed hug. “I'm glad to see they haven't completely worn you down.”

“Oh shush, Richard. We've had a lovely week, haven't we, Oliver?”

“Absolutely,” he responds automatically.

His mother is beaming and there's an actual smile twisting his dad's features. They wouldn't be smiling if they knew what's racing through his head. He's going to break their hearts.

“I'm so excited, Ollie!” His mother gushes, her perfectly coiffed hair barely moving where she bounces on her heels. “Are you ready? Uncle Napoleon sent me to fetch you.”

Nodding, Oliver offers his parents what he hopes is a convincing smile. It's his wedding day, he's supposed to be ecstatic. Thing is, he's barely slept the last two nights and he's an utter _mess_. ' _I'm a mess,'_ whispers in his ear. He tries to ignore the voice and focuses on his father's now, normal, unsmiling face. It seems the mention of Napoleon has soured the man's levity. Now that he knows for sure why that happens, he's a bit happy. Serves him right, silver linings and all that.

Nora hugs him and kisses his father's cheek before leaving them to their own devices. Oliver follows his father out of his room and ushers him down to Illya's study, where the men are meant to have brunch, before getting ready. Napoleon greets them with a smile and hastens them to the table that's been dragged into the room. Oliver casts the man a grateful smile when he motions to the seat next to Mr. P.

“Good morning,” Samuel presses his shoulder against Oliver's in greeting.

“Morning,” he sighs and reaches for his orange juice. Across the table Oliver's father clears his throat and Oliver glances up. Richard looks entirely uncomfortable between Illya and Napoleon and his brows are raised in question. Oliver swallows his drink and flaps a hand lazily. “Pro— _Samuel_ , this is my father Richard. Dad, this is Samuel Perlman, the professor who so graciously allowed me to crash at his place over the summer.”   
“Now, now, you know we adored having you!”

Oliver shrugs as he butters a piece of perfectly toasted bread. From there conversation picks up, switching from topic to topic. Napoleon teases Richard subtly while Illya remains quiet. Halfway through, the door bangs open and Oliver's best man arrives with the other three groomsmen. The noise level rackets up as they're squeezed into empty spots. Kurt, Oliver's best man, is a roommate from college and the closest thing he has to a best friend. He's always been very encouraging when it comes to Oliver's relationship with Jackie. He even helped him pick out her ring. The look he gives Oliver tells him that he isn't doing a very good job of hiding behind a smile.

_Four hours._

The sound of everyone speaking at once grates on his nerves and he excuses himself. Detouring, he escapes in the opposite direction of the bathroom and sneaks through the bustle of the caterers in the kitchen, slipping out onto the back deck. There's an aisle and workers are setting up chairs on either side, a couple assembling an arch. Contrary to the perfect weather and beautiful flowers that are carried out by him, his stomach churns. His fingers curl around the railing, knuckles white with his grip as he lets his head hang, chin to chest. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he drags a shaky breath into his lungs.

_'Do not make the same mistake I did. It damages more than your heart.'_

His grandfather's words from the other night echo inside his hollowed mind. And he is; hollow, and empty. This love has cleaved from him everything important, leaving only a shell behind. His nerves are raw and exposed to the elements and he feels as though he's being held together with nothing more than fraying twine and hope. In his grandfather's study he'd cut open a vein and bled himself dry. Like lancing an infected wound he'd told Illya everything; from first hello to last goodbye. The man hadn't judged him, no, instead he'd repeated Gaby's words almost to the letter. And he'd told him not to make the same mistakes that he had with Napoleon. He gave him his blessing.

“There you are.”

Oliver lets go of a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Straightening, he loosens his grip on the rail and fixes a plastic smile in place once more. Turning, he follows Kurt back inside the house.

_Two hours._

Once again Oliver finds himself standing in front of a mirror, in a tux. Only this time his hair is immaculately styled, bow tie perfectly straight, and jaw freshly shaven. People buzz about the house like a hive of bees, activity and voices coming and going. Taking a deep breath, (he can't get enough air and wants to rip his collar open, but he knows that it isn't the cause of this feeling) he adjusts his cuff links one more time and turns away from his reflection. As he moves to go he notices his abandoned book, that he put down that morning when his parents arrived. His shiny shoes ferry him toward the window and he picks it up. Carefully opening it, he flips though the pages, the afternoon sun illuminating them. He's read it countless times and never goes anywhere without it. Idly he wonders if when they marry, Jackie will tire of this quirk and discourage him of it. She's never been one particularly fond of reading.

Like always, he turns to the inscription just inside, at the beginning.

_''Zwischen Immer und Nie,' for you in silence, somewhere in Italy...'_

His thumb traces the curves of Elio's letters, the movement a habit that's long since partially smudged the words. Lips whisper the lines although Oliver is aware that reading it aloud does not summon the author. Instead there's a feeling that fills him up. It swells like his grandfather's music, a wave rising in an attempt to reach the heavens. His heart begins to pound against his breastbone.

Book in hand, he flees.

Oliver finds her standing at the back row, squinting into the sun while people flutter around doing last-minute things. Her ivory gown swirls about her, brunette curls artfully arranged, and she is breathtaking. There's still another twenty minutes until they're to meet for pictures.

“Jackie.”

Her head whips around and she gives him a horrified look. “Oliver! You aren't supposed to see me yet!”

“I'm sorry, I couldn't wait,” he clears the steps and reaches for her hand. “You're gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” she blushes and he hates himself. “You look handsome too, Ollie.” Hiking her skirt up with one hand and gripping his with the other, she moves into his personal space. Canting her head, her eyes narrow minutely. “What's wrong? Did your dad do something?”

“No, no, it isn't anything like that...”

“You're kinda freaking me out. Can you cut the bullshit?”

“You don't want to marry me.”

For a mere half-second he can see terror flicker behind her eyes before she laughs.

“Very funny, Ollie. Did Kurt or one of those terrible guys put you up to this? Get a rise out of me before the pictures, or something?”

“Jackie, you don't want to marry me.” She stops laughing. “Tell me we aren't just doing what our parents planned for us? Tell me aren't doing this because it's convenient. Tell me you really love me and I will go back inside and we can pretend this conversation never happened.” Her lips part but she doesn't say anything. “Someone once asked me if it's better to speak or to die, ...I'm fucking tired of dying.”

“Who is she?”

“What?”

“The chick you met in Italy, who is she?”

“There isn't another woman, Jack.”

Her grasp is tight around his hand and her eyes are growing wet. “You've been off since you came back. At first I thought it was just jet lag or you readjusting to being back home, you know? But I'm not stupid, Oliver. You stare off into space, you started smoking again, and that,” she rips her hand from his and gestures angrily to the book that's tucked securely under his arm, _“that_ damn book! You take it everywhere like Linus and his blanket!”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't want your fucking apology! I want to marry you in an hour! I want you to forget _whoever_ you met and—” she breaks off mid-rant, damp eyes going round. Drawing a hand up to cover her mouth, the first tear falls. Oliver makes himself keep eye contact. He's done being a coward. “It wasn't a woman, was it?” Jackie whispers behind the veil of her hand.

“No,” Oliver admits.

“Ollie... did I...” trailing off, she drops her hand limply to her side, diamonds in her bracelet glittering in the sun.

“Absolutely not. It just—it _happened_. I'm fucking selfish, I know, and I am truly sorry.”

Jackie laughs, defeated, and tears slide down her flawless face.

“I fucking hate you,” she whispers, but she lets him pull her into a tight embrace.

“I know,” and God, he does.

“Everything alright?”

He squeezes Jackie for what is possibly the last time he ever will, then lets her go. Stepping back they both gasp for breath, something irrevocably broken between them. She drops his gaze as Kurt reaches them.

“I'll take care of everything. I promise,” Oliver gives her his word, waiting until she nods. Taking one last look at her standing in a halo of gold light and white roses, Oliver whispers a goodbye and turns.

“Take care of her,” he tells his best man as he passes by him and takes the stairs two at a time.

His shoes squeak along the floor as he slides to a stop outside the sitting room. It's full of his family and the wedding party. Guests will be arriving in only minutes. He spots Annella first, beautiful in (of all things) a peach colored dress. Ignoring the smiles and outstretched hands beckoning him near, he winds through the bodies to get to her. There's an urgency surging within him. She pauses mid-conversation with his grandmother and twists to slide an arm around his waist. Bending, he whispers to her.

“When did you last speak with Elio?” This time he does choke on the name.

“Just after lunch,” pulling away she fully turns to take in his appearance, eyes filled with concern. “Which was tonight for him. Why, Oliver dear? What's the matter?”

“I have to _speak_ ,” he rasps out.

Understanding comes to her swiftly. Oblivious to the onlookers, Annella's gaze widens and she tugs him down into a tight embrace. Her laughter is thick with tears as she shifts away, taking his face between her hands. In perfect German she gives him her blessing. Gaby gasps loudly. Within seconds a hush falls over the occupants of the room, Samuel and Illya moving toward them, Solo close behind.

“What is it? What's the matter?” Illya asks, a big hand taking hold of Gaby's. She responds in German and Napoleon's laughter is loud in the quiet. Oliver often forgets that his uncle speaks many languages, fluently.

“About damn time!”

“Mother? Oliver, what's going on?” Nora pushes her way between Samuel and Napoleon.

“Just a slight change of plans, darling,” Gaby reassures her.

Annella reaches for her husband's hand, guiding him to her side. Oliver watches the man's face as she explains, this time in French. Samuel's gaze snaps to Oliver and his eyes grow wide just as his wife's had. Acting on instinct, Oliver holds out the book, as if the professor would need anymore proof than how readily Oliver has crumbled. Samuel takes it and carefully opens it, spotting the elegantly scrawled note right away. Those that stand around him wait with bated breath to see what Elio's father will do. Oliver's face is wet with tears he doesn't remember crying as Mr. P gently closes the book and faces the taller man. He holds the book out but doesn't release it when Oliver's fingers close around its edges.

“It'll be raining so be careful, okay?”

The request startles painful laughter from Oliver's chest.

“Of course.”

Samuel lets go of the book and smiles brilliantly up at him before reaching for him. His hug is warm with his joy and Oliver finds himself grinning through his tears. You can't have a rainbow without the storm after all. When they break apart, Oliver clears his throat and turns to the others.

“Mom, Dad, I'm not getting married today.”

The room erupts into chaos after his confession.

His grandmother shoos him, along with the Perlmans, Illya, and Napoleon, out of the room. He makes sure to hug her tightly in gratitude and kiss his furiously confused mother's cheek on his way out. Napoleon leads them to Illya's study and locks them in.

“Oliver, I'm terribly proud of you... but you have shit timing, kid.”

Oliver groans and collapses into an armchair. “I didn't exactly think this through.”

“No, you didn't,” Napoleon pushes a glass of amber liquid into his free hand. “However, we've had less to work with before, haven't we, Peril?”

“Da,” Illya mutters as he fiddles with his phone.

“I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing,” Oliver looks at the Perlmans and takes a deep pull of whiskey.

“Nonsense! We love you, Oliver.”

A knock on the door distracts him and he watches Napoleon usher Gaby and Waverly into the room. The first thing Gaby does is whack a palm upside the back of Oliver's head, his uncle looking on with a grin. Oliver flinches and rubs at the stinging spot her ring left behind.

“What am I to do with a jilted bride, confused guests, and a ton of food? Tell me, little bear, shall I tell them you ran away? Or shall I tell them you came down with something and pack up their dinner plates in doggy bags? Why couldn't you take after me, huh? You are too much like your grandfather, and dare I say, Solo!”

“Now, now, Gaby... No need to berate the boy for following his heart,” Solo arches a brow, gaze ticking between Gaby and Alexander for some reason. “Besides, I have an answer to all of your woes.”

“Oh?” Her hands meet her hips in the universal language for 'it better be good'. “Let's hear it!”

Napoleon swallows a mouthful of whiskey and unhurriedly walks across the room to Illya's side. The Russian's brows nearly disappear into his hairline when Napoleon tangles their fingers together. He mutters a “ _Cowboy._ ” to which the suave man simply replies “Not now, Peril.” Holding his partner's hands in a room full of people, Napoleon looks at Illya as if he's water and he's dying of thirst.

“Ms. Teller, my solution is simple,” although he speaks to her, his eyes never stray from the tall man gazing at him like he's watching something beautifully terrifying. “If he'll allow me the honor, I suggest that Illya and I make things official. It's been a very long time coming and I'm frankly tired of waiting.”

Oliver hears Annella whispering ' _Is it better to speak or to die?'_ and he cannot stop the smile that blooms on his face.

\- - -

After a 9 hour flight in Waverly's private jet, a train ride, and a bus; Oliver is exhausted. And Samuel had been correct, it's raining. Crema's skies are dark gray and weeping when he steps off the bus. He's sure he looks terrible in his rumpled tux and unchecked hair, but he's past the point of caring. His bow tie hangs untied and limp around his unbuttoned collar, and his small backpack holds very little. A single change of clothes, his phone and book, and a few toiletries. He'd not wasted time packing useless things.

The first thing he does is send his grandmother a text to let her know he's arrived, somewhat. He's in Crema and his heart _knows_ that he's close to its destination. Anyway, she'll get it when she gets up. The second thing he does is duck into a shop and buy a pack of cigarettes. Luck must be on his side because one of the men that he spent nights playing poker with is there, trying to stay out of the dreary weather. He questions Oliver about his return and he tells him it was a spontaneous thing, offering no further reasoning. He offers to give Oliver a lift and once there's a small break in the rain, they run out to the man's car, setting out.

The closer they get to the Perlman's villa, the more nervous Oliver becomes. What if Elio tells him to fuck off and slams the door in his face? Will Anchise give him a lift back into town? Or worse, what if Marzia is with Elio? What if he laughs in his face and turns him away at the door? Jesus, Uncle Napoleon was right, he really doesn't think things through.

Messing with his phone as he tries to pay attention to the small talk the driver is keeping up, he thumbs through his pictures. The last one makes him grin. Illya is kissing Napoleon soundly under an arch decorated with white roses. Turns out that Gaby liked Napoleon's solution. Illya and Napoleon were married, much to the surprise of Oliver's wedding guests. He'd gotten the picture without a caption, not that it needed one. He'll print it out one day and hang it wherever he calls home.

“You sure they are home?”

The driver's voice makes Oliver look up and he has to put a hand on the dash to steady himself as the Perlman's villa slowly comes into view. Despite the rain that pours down, it's still just as beautiful as he remembers. He mumbles his reply and promises to pay the man later for the ride. Shouldering his bag, he all but jumps from the car. The horn beeps twice as he drives away leaving Oliver standing fifteen feet from the front doors.

His heart races as he sees a flicker of light out of the corner of his eye. He's soaked to the bone, he pretty much just ran out of his own wedding, and he hasn't slept well in nine months. This is by far the stupidest thing he's ever done. And the most selfish. A clap of thunder makes him jump and he laughs at his own idiocy. Turning his face to the sky, he closes his eyes and lets the rain wash down his face. It's cleansing in a sense that this is _it_. This is his defining now or never moment, and if he's going to go out in a blaze of glory, at least he's doing it his way.

Lightning skitters across the heavy clouds just as the doors bang open before him. Oliver opens his eyes and grins. His heart sings.

“Oliver?” 


	2. The end and future.

Lowering his head, Oliver ineffectively swipes water from his eyes.

“Elio.”

“What the hell? Where...Why—What the hell?!”

Oliver grins and shrugs nonchalantly, well, as much as one can appear casual half drowned and lovesick. “I really didn't want to fudge it again.”

Elio stares at him, his mouth working but nothing comes out. His hair's longer and he's by far the most beautiful man Oliver has ever seen. Even in a ratty t-shirt, plaid boxers, and his feet bare, he's everything. God, he's missed him. He's never leaving him again. He watches as Elio runs his hands through his hair and Oliver's itch to do the same. Those piercing eyes that have seen pieces of Oliver that he'll never show another soul sweep over his soggy frame. And, without warning the curly haired brunette launches himself across the space that separates them. He barrels into Oliver so hard that it knocks him back a step. Dropping his bag, Oliver's arms wrap around Elio's frame and lift his feet from the ground. Lithe limbs curl around his neck and hold on for dear life. He isn't sure who starts laughing first, or whose laughter turns into choking sobs first; all he knows is that he's _home_.

He sets him back onto his soles but neither are willing to let go of the other. Elio dips his head, his brow pressing into Oliver's collarbone. The blonde's hands find the sharp just of Elio's jaw and cradle his face, gently pulling him back. He needs to look into his eyes; he's searching for absolution and blessing both. Elio stares at him unrepentant in his awe and the jagged edges of Oliver begin to knit back together.

“Elio...” the whisper is a small, fragile thing.

“Oliver,” his own name falls from his lips, a hushed and pleading prayer. “OliverOliverOliver.”

Elio's sob is echoed by the thunder and Oliver holds him closer. He remembers an attic and a plea, _'I don't want you to go,'._ He remembers hands caressing his skin while he dozed, the same hands that could play him as easily as his instruments. Oliver remembers _everything_.

“You're really here?”

“I hope so, or I'm going to be very pissed when I wake up.” Elio rolls his eyes, but his grin is blinding. Oliver rests his brow against Elio's, his hands sliding up the soaked fabric that covers his back. Inhaling deeply, Oliver licks his lips. “Can you forgive me?”

Spiky lashes flutter closed for a breath as Elio's hands bracket Oliver's face, fingers delving into dripping strands as he straightens a bit. His gaze takes a circuit of his features and Oliver is laid bare by that intuitive stare. He is literally at Elio's mercy. “We'll see,” Elio says mimicking Oliver's earlier shrug. Oliver laughs and for the first time in a long while, he can breathe. There's a bright thread of redemption stitching up his wounds and he's no longer short of breath.

\- o -

_Saturday, October, 21 st – Five Months Later. _

The trees are painted in shades of orange, red, and gold with the sun slanting through the branches making them somehow feel _warm_. They dip over the road, heavy with rain, and pepper it with falling leaves. It's an artist's dream; the embodiment of autumn. Oliver glances to his right with a knowing look.

“Did you bring the camera?”

“Yes.”

They've made good time and the sun is just starting to dip in the sky, a little closer to the horizon. The road is slick with remnants of a storm and he drives slowly. He's been waiting for this day for a while and feels no need to rush anyway.

The estate rises out of the colors, bold and stately. Soft, yellow light illuminates the windows and Oliver's heart thrums happily. Downshifting as the car approaches, he glances over again. Elio's eyes are brimming with excitement and he exudes nervous energy, fingers tapping out a muffled rhythm atop his thigh. Cutting the engine, Oliver reaches for his hand and draws it across the console and onto his own thigh, linking their fingers.

“You doing okay?”

“Honestly?” Elio stares out at the house. “I'm terrified, but really happy. And I want to kiss you so much right now,” he tacks onto the end.

Oliver breathes a quiet laugh and lightly tugs on the man's hand. “Hey,” voice hushed because he still can't get over the fact that Elio is _with_ him. Elio looks at him and smiles softly. “What's stopping you?”

“Nothing, I guess,” Elio whispers and to Oliver's ears it sounds like he's just as gone as Oliver.

Leaning in, his free hand reaches up to cradle Elio's jaw, thumb gliding feather light over his bottom lip. Oliver presses their lips together just as light and breathes in. The hand that Oliver isn't holding fists in the front of Oliver's sweater and he can't help but to deepen the kiss. Elio tastes of peppermint coffee and Oliver is reluctant to pull away. Resting his brow against the other man's he takes a moment just to breathe. Elio's hand releases its hold and slides up to curve around Oliver's neck.

“We should probably get out of the car ...before my grandmother sends someone out to do it forcibly.”

“She sounds like my kind of grandma,” Elio huffs a laugh and swoops in giving him one more sound kiss. Parting, they climb out of the car and Oliver has a sense of déjà vu as he skirts the hood. “This place is beautiful, Oliver,” Elio comments as the front door opens. He can't grin any bigger; Elio's appreciation of Napoleon's house feels genuine and right. His family files out of the house as Oliver slips an arm around Elio's waist.

“Oliver! You're on time!”

“He is early,” Illya remarks with a wry smile.

Gaby moves closer and stops right before them, shamelessly giving Elio the once over. “I take it you are the reason he's early?”

“Ah, yes, Ma'am.”

“I like you already,” she pulls him into a hug. “We are very happy to meet you, Elio.”

“Don't overwhelm the boy, Gaby,” Napoleon steps up and grins.

“There are things beeping, Solo!” Waverly calls from just inside the front door.

“Peril, the pie!” Napoleon exclaims and turns making a hasty retreat, dragging Illya behind him.

“Come on, boys,” Gaby spins on her heels, still spry as ever and marches back to the house.

“You ready?” Oliver whispers, dipping his head and snaking both arms around Elio from behind.

“As I'll ever be,” the brunette reaches back and cards nimble fingers through Oliver's hair making him hum in approval.

Oliver grins and plants a smacking kiss to the shorter man's cheek. Pulling away, he motions Elio ahead and goes to the trunk to get their bags. Bringing Elio back here is a big step and one he'd proposed almost immediately. He'd wanted Elio to know and meet his family. They'd helped open his eyes and he's indebted to them.

“Hey,” Elio hollers.

Oliver closes the trunk and shoulders his bag, Elio's in his other hand. “Yeah?” Elio stands at the edge of the fountain, dressed in dark jeans and a maroon sweater, curls framing his angelic face. Oliver once read that angels aren't all cute cherubs, but fierce warriors. Looking at Elio now, he believes every word. There's a sweet smile curving his lips and it makes Oliver's stomach flip.

“Elio,” he says and it means ' _I love you.'_ along with a million other things that only they understand.

His feet move of their own accord and he stops when he's toe to toe with Elio. He drops a bag on top of their feet and reaches for Elio's face. “ _Oliver_ ,” he breathes against his mouth because he doesn't need to say anything else.

_\- FIN. -_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, there you go... Thanks for reading this hot mess!


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